


for all of the times i never could

by femme_ecrivain



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hermione cannot let a mystery go, Not Epilogue Compliant, Oblivious Hermione Granger, Pining Draco Malfoy, Post-Canon, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Unspeakable Hermione Granger, and Draco is now a mystery, but in an intellectual way, the macguffin is just a macguffin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:55:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29111931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme_ecrivain/pseuds/femme_ecrivain
Summary: Seven years ago, Hermione Granger gave evidence to the Wizengamot that helped keep Draco Malfoy out of Azkaban. Six years ago they completed their final year at Hogwarts - and since then there has been no contact between them. Hermione would be perfectly happy to keep it that way, but when a dangerous Dark object threatens the life of one of her dearest friends she has no choice but to seek Malfoy out and beg for his help.What she discovers when she finds him is not at all what she expected and now she's intrigued - intrigued and determined not to let him disappear again before she's managed to uncover his secret. A secret Draco definitely does not want her finding out.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 62
Kudos: 240





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello new fandom! I am very very new to Dramione fic, but I've been reading it like crazy for the past three months or so and now offer my contribution. I do hope you enjoy!

The doors of the lift slid open and Hermione stepped out into the floor that held the Auror offices. She glanced around in search of Ron and Harry but they were nowhere in sight, the door to their shared office shut tight. That in itself wasn’t so remarkable—they were often out of the office, of course, the nature of their job demanded it—though she had hoped they’d be around to say hello on her first day back at the Ministry after a two week holiday. Although... Ron and Harry’s absence may not be anything to remark on, but something still struck her as _off_. A tension that she couldn’t quite put her finger on seemed to simmer in the air—a feeling of something being not precisely right. Frowning, she picked up her pace, hurrying to the office of the Head Auror and rapping firmly on the door. 

“Come in!” 

Hermione pushed the door open and entered the office to find Robards waiting for her with a tense smile on his face. “Granger,” he greeted in a tight but cordial tone. “Please take a seat.” 

Hermione did, keeping her expression carefully impassive and betraying none of the confusion she felt at having been summoned, without warning and with no reason given, to the office of the Head Auror. 

“You’re probably wondering why I summoned you,” said Robards. 

Hermione’s lip quirked. However could he have guessed? “Well, yes,” she said, “I confess I am.”

Robards leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers. He peered at her for a moment over the tips of them with a sharply calculating stare that she refused to allow to unnerve her. As an Unspeakable, even a mid-level one, she did not answer to any Auror—Head or no—nor even to the DMLE itself. Not unless she chose to do so, as Robards knew perfectly well. 

He should also know that it would take more than the wizard equivalent of a Paddington Hard Stare to throw Hermione Granger off her game. 

She returned his gaze coolly, unblinkingly, until finally he spoke. “Tell me what you know about Draco Malfoy.” 

Hermione blinked. The stare may not have thrown her, but that question very nearly did. “Um, beyond the basics, sir… er, nothing,” she replied. “Is there something I should know?” 

Robards, irritatingly, replied to her question with another of his own. “What do you consider the basics?” he demanded. 

“Well.” Hermione tamped down her annoyance and dredged up her memories of the Malfoy in question. “He was in my year at Hogwarts. He bullied me because I’m Muggle-born. He became a Death Eater in our sixth year. He let other Death Eaters into Hogwarts and was responsible for it falling under their control. He watched as I was tortured on the floor of his parlour. You know, the basics.” 

She couldn’t stop a hint of sarcasm creeping into her tone, but far from minding the mild insolence, Robards seemed amused. His eyes crinkled briefly at the edges before he continued his interrogation. “So he bullied you, stood by as you were tortured, and yet you testified for him at his trial.” 

“Well, yes.” Hermione frowned. “Of course I did.” 

“Why ‘of course’?” 

“It was the right thing to do.” 

“Helping your childhood bully and a marked Death Eater escape Azkaban was the right thing to do?” 

“Yes,” she said firmly, “I believe it was.” 

“Why?” 

Hermione huffed a frustrated sigh. “Because he wasn’t _evil_ ,” she said sharply. “Not like the others. Not even like his father. He was a little shit, if you pardon the expression, sir, spoilt and snobbish and mean. But he wasn’t a true Death Eater. I think he genuinely tried to be, but when push came to actual shove, he just couldn’t do it.” 

She paused to gather her thoughts and Robards waited, still with his eyes fixed on her. “I don’t know if that means there’s any good in him,” she continued after a long moment. “It may just have been simple cowardice that held him back. But that doesn’t matter. He didn’t deserve Azkaban, so yes, I helped him walk free. And I don’t regret it.” 

Robards gave a confirming sort of nod, as though he’d been expecting just that response. “Tell me about your final year at Hogwarts,” he said. “The eighth year, I believe you called it.” 

Hermione sighed and settled back in her chair. It was clear she would be getting nothing from the Head Auror until she’d answered all his questions, so she may as well make herself comfortable. “Yes,” she confirmed. “Only a few of us returned for it. Me, Luna, Neville, Padma. Theo Nott. And Malfoy.” 

“Did you have any interaction with Mr Malfoy during that year?” 

“Not much. He kept to himself. We were partners in Potions but we didn’t speak much beyond discussing our assignments.” She frowned again as another memory sprang up. “Though he did apologise,” she recalled. 

Robards’ gaze sharpened. “Apologise?” 

“Yes. For bullying me, and for the, um. The torture. For not trying to help me.” 

“And how did you respond?” 

She shrugged. “I accepted his apology. There wasn’t anything he could realistically have done to stop his aunt from _Crucio_ -ing me, not without getting himself killed, and his refusal to identify Harry likely saved our lives. As for the rest of it—he did seem genuinely sorry.” 

“Do you think he made any effort to change as a result of this remorse you believe he felt?” 

“Well, I mean, he stopped calling me a Mudblood.” Robards winced slightly at the word. “I know that’s a low bar to clear, but I appreciated it. He was polite to me in the eighth year but we barely ever spoke.” Hermione leaned forward and allowed some of her frustration to colour her tone. “Truthfully, sir, I’m not really sure why you’ve called me here to ask these questions. I hardly know Draco Malfoy at all.” 

“When was the last time you saw him?” 

“I think it was after our Potions N.E.W.T.,” replied Hermione, clinging to her composure and resisting the urge to snap at the man. “That was the last one we took.” 

Robards laid his hands on his desk and leaned back. “Would it surprise you,” he said slowly, his eyes never leaving her face, “to hear that after the Potions N.E.W.T. was the last time _anyone_ saw Draco Malfoy?” 

“I—” Hermione wasn’t sure how he expected her to react. “Well, yes. I suppose it would. But wait, is that what actually happened?” 

Robards continued to watch her, unmoving. 

“Are you seriously saying no one at _all_ has seen him since then?” she demanded. 

“That’s precisely what I’m saying.” 

“But…” She stared at him. “That was six years ago!” 

“Yes,” Robards confirmed with a nod. “Six years ago Draco Malfoy disappeared from the Wizarding world. No one has seen him. No one’s been able to trace him. We have no clue if he’s alive or dead.” 

“His mother—” 

“Narcissa Malfoy has been living in exile since her own exoneration. She’s had no visitors.” 

“Well, what about his friends?” Hermione strained to recall who those might be. “Goyle, or—or Pansy Parkinson?” 

“ _No one_ has seen him,” Robards emphasised. “On the day the exam results came out he emptied his Gringotts vault—so the goblins claim—then vanished.”

“Well. Wow.” Hermione had no idea what else to say. 

“Wow indeed,” agreed Robards drily, then his expression grew grim. “Many people, possibly yourself included, would say this was no bad thing. However certain… circumstances have recently arisen, and now it is imperative that we locate Mr Malfoy immediately and bring him back here to the Ministry.” 

“Back here,” Hermione echoed, rather blankly.

“Yes. He must be located and brought here as soon as possible. And we need you to help us do it.”

— 

Hermione imagined that no matter how many years she lived among wizards she wouldn't ever stop being amazed by how it never, not once, occurred to them to think about things outside the context of magic. Even the Muggle-born ones like herself, the minute they stepped foot into Diagon Alley it was like they forgot everything about the Muggle way of life. 

_No one can find him_ , Robards had said. _No one can trace him_. 

And no one, apparently, had thought to look him up in a Muggle phone book. 

It was possible, of course, that the idea of a Malfoy living in the Muggle world was so far outside the realm of what seemed possible that even considering it would prove too much for people. It was almost too much for her. Yet there was his name, in black and white, and an address in a comfortable if not ostentatious neighbourhood of Muggle London. 

When she informed Robards how she’d found him, the Head Auror leaned back in his chair and roared with laughter. “Ingenious,” he said when the fit had passed, wiping tears from his eyes. “Absolutely stonking.” 

Hermione bristled. “It was a simple enough conclusion,” she said stiffly. “Ruling out the possibility that he was dead he had to be _some_ where, and—” 

“Miss Granger, please. It was a compliment.” 

“Oh.” Of course it was. Hermione felt rather foolish for her knee-jerk reaction. But then, she’d grown used to hearing little but criticism every time she suggested taking a more Muggle approach to things, even from the most broad-minded wizards. 

“Now, then.” Robards’ expression grew serious, and she returned her attention to him. “You understand the next stage of the plan?” 

“Yes.” 

“Excellent. Keep me apprised if anything goes awry, and if not I’ll see you soon.” 

“As soon as possible, sir.” 

“Good. And good luck.” 

And now Hermione stood outside the door of a brown brick mid-terraced house with her finger hovering over the doorbell. The door was Slytherin green, she noted, which came as something of a relief. At least whatever had driven Malfoy into Muggle society hadn’t changed him _that_ much. Hermione wasn’t sure she could deal with a completely transformed Draco Malfoy. 

Not like she’d ever dealt that well with the original version. 

But no, in fact, that wasn’t quite true. It was Harry who’d never dealt well with Malfoy, and Ron. She had for the most part simply ignored him—or slapped him but good across the face. 

Even years later that was still a pretty satisfying memory. 

It wasn’t an option now, though. Now she needed to get on his good side, secure his cooperation, and that she couldn’t do unless she pulled herself together. She drew a deep breath and released it slowly, then pressed firmly on the doorbell and listened as it rang within the house. It was a pleasant sounding ring, not too harsh or shrill, she thought, then stifled a slightly hysterical giggle. What in Merlin’s name was she even doing, standing here admiring the tone of her childhood bully’s doorbell? 

The door swung open and a deep voice said “A bit early today, aren’t we, Mrs— _Granger!_ ” 

Hermione swallowed hard and looked up, into steel-grey eyes she never thought she’d see again. “Hello, Malfoy.” 

—

If a day was going to punch a man square in the gut, Draco thought, the least it could do was give him a bit of warning beforehand. 

_This_ day had begun as any other. No portents lurked in his tea leaves, no fell whispers drifted on the morning air. Not a twinge was felt from any of the myriad wards he’d cast around his house. Nothing. He’d awoken at his usual hour, had his usual breakfast, was just about to head down to his lab in the usual way when the doorbell rang—perhaps that was the portent, he thought, but he’d simply assumed it was Mrs McGillicuddy, here to pick up her groceries a bit earlier than usual. But instead of his elderly neighbour, the woman on the doorstep was one he’d been absolutely, utterly certain he would never see again. 

“ _Granger!_ ” he gasped, then could summon nothing further, not even any sounds as he gaped down at her. Her eyes were wide and apprehensive as she looked up at him, but her voice was steady. 

“Hello, Malfoy.” 

“What—” Draco forced his mouth to form coherent words, but his own voice was hoarse and harsh. He cleared his throat. “What are you doing here?” he croaked. 

_How did you find me?_ he wanted to scream, though knowing her, it probably hadn’t been that hard. No doubt she had applied some very simple logic to the task, perhaps consulted a book or two. He swallowed back a wry laugh. She’d probably just looked in the bloody phone book. 

“I need to speak to you,” she replied. “Er, officially that is.” 

“Officially?” 

She glanced around. “Yes. Um—may I come in?” 

_Sweet Circe no,_ he thought, _you absolutely may not_. The very last thing he wanted was Hermione Granger in his home, his sanctuary. What he wanted was for her to Obliviate him so he could forget she was ever here, then take herself away again— _far_ away—and leave him to his solitude. But manners and muscle memory took over before his brain had a chance to catch up, and he found himself stepping back to clear her path, gesturing for her to enter. 

“Of course,” he said. 

She came in and he shut the door behind her, watching her, unable to tear his eyes away as she looked around—no doubt registering every detail of his wood-panelled entryway and the winding staircase that led to the first floor at the end of it, and filing them away in her enormous brain. “Sitting room is through there,” he managed to say, indicating a door to her left with a nod of his head. “Can I get you anything to drink?” 

“Oh.” She seemed nonplussed by the offer. “Er—no, this isn’t—well, it’s not exactly a social call.” 

“Yes, I believe I gathered that from your use of the word ‘officially,’” he drawled, impressed and a bit perturbed by how easily he fell back into his old manner of speaking around her. “Does your business preclude you from having a cup of tea?” 

“No, I don’t suppose it does. But—” 

“Tea it is, then.” Draco pushed the door open and held it for her. “Take a seat, Granger, and make yourself at home. I’ll be back in a minute.” 

“You—” she began, but he had already shut the door behind her and fled. 

Alone in the sanctuary of his kitchen, Draco leaned both hands heavily against the counter and drew a shuddering breath. She was here, was all he could think. Here. In his house. Granger was _here_. 

Fuck. 

He had wondered, quite often over the course of the years, how he would feel if he ever saw her again. What he might do, the things he should say. It seemed a safe enough speculation as he’d been certain it was pure fantasy—there was no reason for either of them to seek the other out, and no way their paths could cross. He was safely in the Muggle world, she amongst wizards. An ironic shift in their fortunes, he reflected, and one his adolescent self would surely have despised. 

Or would he? Draco hardly knew anymore. He had spent most of their eighth year at Hogwarts attempting to work out who he was without either the weight of his family’s expectations or the protection of their good name. What did _he_ truly think? How did _he_ actually feel? 

He’d arrived at very few solid conclusions—separating himself from his upbringing was no mean feat—but after a year of watching Granger be as swotty and irritating as ever but _seeing_ her for the first time through unclouded eyes, there was one thing he knew with utter certainty: he did not hate her. Possibly he never truly had. 

Painstakingly, Draco had identified and analysed every emotion he could recall having felt towards her… what he’d been content to interpret as hatred, what he hadn’t wanted to admit was attraction. What may have veered dangerously in the direction of obsession… and he had, more or less, come to terms with them. 

Or so he’d thought. But now that she was here, in his home, grown from the gawky promise of her teen years into an unnervingly appealing woman—her wild hair almost tamed but still begging for his hands to sink into it, her lips still plump and soft, her dark eyes deep as ever—every last one of them was surging up again, choking him, tightening his chest with sensations he thought he’d banished and confusing his normally orderly mind. 

He didn’t like it. She had to go. For the sake of his hard-won peace and for his very sanity. With another shaky inhale, Draco cleared his mind, took a firm grip on himself, and set about the soothingly mindless task of making tea. Kettle, canister, pot, cups. Spoons, milk, sugar. Boil the water, heat the pot. Measure the tea. Pour. Tea he could handle, as easily as breathing, and he could handle Granger too. He’d pour her a cup, listen to what she had to say, indulge whatever wild hair had brought her here, then get rid of her as soon as he could. 

Surprise registered on her face when he entered the sitting room bearing a tray with his silver teapot and heirloom china cups and saucers. Despite his resolve to be calm and civil, Draco couldn’t stop his lip from curling into a derisive sneer. She probably thought he’d do no more than dip a bag of PG Tips into some lukewarm water for her, he thought viciously. _That_ was her opinion of him. 

In fairness, though, he deserved it. 

He set the tray down on the table in front of the sofa and smoothed his face into a carefully bland expression. “How do you take it?” he asked. 

“Um. Milk, one sugar.” 

He prepared a cup to her specifications and handed it to her. She accepted it, still looking nonplussed, but Draco’s ire was fading and he began to find the situation rather amusing. So she thought she knew him, did she? She would discover that she did not. She’d come here expecting to find Merlin only knew what, and now her assumptions were being turned right on their heads. He almost smiled. The idea of rattling her, shaking her unshakable confidence in her own knowledge pleased him immensely. 

She sipped her tea and he observed her from the corner of his eye as he prepared his own. Her eyebrows rose slightly when she tasted it, and she looked reluctantly impressed. He felt a foolish surge of pleasure.

“So,” he said, settling back into his favoured armchair and crossing one knee over the other in what he hoped was a smoothly elegant motion. “Tell me what official business could possibly be so pressing as to bring Hermione Granger to my doorstep?” 

She took another sip then placed her cup in its saucer and set it down on the table. Her movements were deliberate and graceful in their surety, far more refined than those of the girl he remembered. The passionate, headstrong girl who never walked or even ran but rather _charged_ , wholeheartedly, into everything she did, from drinking tea to studying to shouting about house-elf rights all through the halls of Hogwarts. It was one of the things he’d always disparaged about her, that straightforward bluntness and lack of any elegance or subtlety. But now... now everything about her seemed smoother, tidier, less chaotic, from her hair that was still gloriously curly but without the frizz, to her hands, small and slender and free from the blots of ink he so vividly recalled on them. 

He felt a momentary insane stab of loss over the girl she’d been, then gave himself a mental shake and shut the doors of his mind firmly on Past Granger. She’d grown up, obviously. So had he. Something that was surely for the best, for both of them. 

He glanced at her hands again, now twisting nervously in her lap. Whatever she had to say was plainly difficult for her, so he sipped his tea and watched her hands as she gathered the words she needed. They were unadorned, her hands—no varnish on the nails, no rings on the fingers. Not even a wedding band. Which meant nothing, he reminded himself sharply as an uncomfortable sensation fluttered in his belly. It wasn’t as though the Weasleys had any family jewels to give her, and she wouldn’t be the kind of woman to be upset about not having a precious stone to mark her betrothal—

His distracted musing came to an abrupt halt when she spoke. 

“Malfoy,” she said, the word bursting from her as though breaking an invisible barrier. “What do you know about the Minuot Extenebris?”

—

Malfoy’s expression underwent almost no change, barely more than a slight narrowing of the eyes, but Hermione had not completed—with merit, she might add—a certificate course in how to read the subtle ticks of body language in those skilled in Occlumency for nothing. Malfoy was a known Occlumens, so she hadn’t expected much in the way of visible reaction from him. That tiny twitch of his eyelids was enough. 

With deliberate control he sipped his tea then placed the cup in the saucer. His hand did not so much as quiver. “What do _you_ know about the Minuot Extenebris?” he asked. 

Her lips quirked in a wry smile, though she found no real humour in the situation. “I asked you first.” 

Another minute flicker of his eyelid. “So you did,” he agreed. He sipped his tea again, watching her with that intent look that she recalled from their eighth-year Potions class, like he was trying to puzzle her out. She had to force herself not to squirm. 

“So?” she pressed. 

“So whatever information you believe I have is clearly of value to you or you wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of tracking me down,” he replied. “If you want it, you have to bargain for it.” 

She scoffed. “Could you be _any_ more of a Slytherin?” 

“Probably not. But as I’m sure you know I don’t consider that a defect.” 

“No.” She picked up her tea again and took a calming sip. “I don’t suppose you do.” 

His face remained impassive but she noted the tension in his fingers as they grasped the handle of his teacup, the knuckles pale even on his alabaster skin, and the rhythm of his breathing, too measured to be natural. He was good at playing it cool but her question had shaken him and that alone was enough to make her willing to give up a small amount of intelligence to ensure his cooperation. 

“What I know,” she began, watching him carefully as she spoke, “is that the Minuot Extenebris a powerful Dark object that has shown up periodically in Wizarding lore for at least a thousand years. It has the ability to appear to each individual observer as the most beautiful and desirable object they could imagine—usually a ring or some other item of jewellery. They become obsessed with it, willing to do anything to obtain it—but once they put it on their body it slowly drains away their magic, leaving them powerless and quite often dead. Does that about cover it?” 

“Those are the basics, yes.” 

Hermione almost fancied she could hear approval in his tone, and it made her own sharp. “Anything you’d care to add?” she snapped. 

“I’m guessing you probably already know that the Minuot has been kept in my mother’s family vault for the past three centuries, give or take a decade or two,” he remarked. 

“Yes. Or at least, that's what was surmised based on the evidence we were able to uncover.” 

“We?” 

“The Department of Mysteries, and the Aurors, tangentially.” 

“Tangentially?” 

She glowered at him. “Stop echoing me!” 

“Then _explain_.” 

She huffed. “It was recovered by an Auror team in the dungeons of a Welsh castle, on the remains of the last person to wear it,” she elaborated, grudgingly. “Well… almost last.” 

“One of the Aurors put it on,” deduced Malfoy, scowling as he set his cup down sharply in its saucer. “Of course they did. Bloody idiots.” 

“Yes.” Hermione’s lip twisted wryly. “That’s the general consensus. It’s why the Unspeakables were brought in; we have training to help us resist the allure of cursed objects while we investigate ways to break their enchantments.” 

Malfoy set his cup aside and unfolded his legs, leaned his forearms on his knees and stared at his hands in silence. After a long moment he spoke. 

“The Minuot isn’t cursed, you know.”

Hermione was startled. “What?” 

“It’s not a curse. A curse, as I’m _certain_ you’re aware, Granger, is something imposed on an object, externally. The Minuot’s properties are intrinsic to it. You’ll never break them because there’s nothing to break. You’d have to destroy the object itself, fundamentally destroy its magic.” 

“Which would be nearly impossible,” concluded Hermione. 

“Precisely.” Malfoy looked up and his eyes met hers, and for the briefest instant Hermione was certain that he felt the same sinking feeling of despair that she did. Then he looked down again and the moment was lost. “That’s why my ancestors locked it away,” he continued, in a slightly rougher voice. “They considered it too much of a risk. And I’m sure you’d agree that an object deemed prohibitively risky by the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black should certainly not see the light of day.” 

Was she imagining it, Hermione wondered, or was there bitterness now in his tone? 

“How did it get out?” he demanded. “How did it end up in Wales, of all places?”

“Ah. Well. We were hoping you might have some ideas about that.” 

She couldn’t see his face, but the knuckles in his clasped hands went white again. “The only person likely to have gone into that particular vault in the last ten years would be my dearest Auntie Bella.” 

Hermione shivered and Malfoy’s hands clenched tighter still, the short nails digging into the flesh. 

“You think that your… your aunt, she took the Minuot from the vault?” she asked, proud that her voice did not waver. 

“If anyone would be reckless enough to risk it…” 

Bellatrix Lestrange would have risked anything if she thought it would bring her favour with Voldemort, thought Hermione, and done so without question. But would the Minot have brought her favour, or…

“How could she be sure she wouldn’t fall victim to it herself, though?” she demanded. 

“Ah.” Malfoy sat up straight and regarded her with a taunting expression that she found uncomfortably familiar. “Now, I think, we arrive at the crux of the matter. Don’t we, Granger? Is this not the _actual_ reason you’re here?”

Hermione resisted the urge to grind her teeth and snarl at him, reminded herself that she needed him on her side. “Just tell me, Malfoy,” she said flatly. 

“The Minuot was created by one of the earliest Black ancestors, for use against his enemies," he said in a similar tone, confirming her supposition. "It doesn’t affect anyone in the direct family line.” 

“And what about you?” She caught his gaze and held it. “You’re the most direct descendent of the Blacks still living. Would the Minuot affect you?” 

His grey eyes grew stormy, but he didn’t look away. “Almost certainly not.” 

“And do you know the—well, not counter-curse I guess, but the magic necessary to combat the ring’s influence?” 

“I do.” 

Hermione swallowed hard, then asked her final, most vital question. “And would you be willing to use that magic to save the life of Ron Weasley?”

\---


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for comments and kudos! New fandoms are scary, especially a prolific and talented one like this, so good feedback is amazing to hear!

It took some considerable effort, but Draco held on to his calm. “Weasley,” he growled. “Of course. Why am I not surprised?” 

Granger’s mouth twisted and her jaw clenched, as though she had a retort on the tip of her tongue but was holding it back. Whether it was a retort against his remark or her boyfriend’s idiocy, he couldn’t say. 

_Was_ the Weasel still her boyfriend? Draco’s eyes flitted to her bare ring finger again, then away. There was no use in torturing himself with such questions. 

“How long has he had it on?” he asked her instead. 

“About a month.” 

“That long?” Draco stood from his chair and began to pace the room. “Bloody hell, Granger!” 

“He didn’t tell anyone about it for ages,” she protested. “It wasn’t until his magic was noticeably depleted that Harry finally managed to pry it out of him. The Aurors acted as quickly as they could once they knew, but…” she twisted her hands together in her lap and a worried frown creased her brow. “Is it too late?” she whispered. “Isn’t there anything that can be done?” 

“I’d have to see it for myself before I could say with any certainty.” Draco was already running through possible scenarios in his head. “Is he at St Mungo’s?” 

“No, he’s under observation in the Department of Mysteries. I can Apparate us directly there—er, that is, if you’re willing to come?” 

He turned to look at her, at the odd blend of hope and defiance in her face and posture. She was expecting him to refuse, and, Draco realised, he _could_. He did not have to do this. He could say no and very little would change. Everyone involved already thought the worst of him—the entire Wizarding world thought it—so his refusal would do nothing but confirm their beliefs. Potter would continue to hate him as would Weasley, if he lived, and Granger…

Granger. _Curse_ it. 

“I’ll go,” he heard himself say. “I’ll do everything I can.” 

She heaved a sigh of relief and a wide, dazzling smile broke across her face. Draco felt something hot and unnerving twist in his gut and he slammed every door in his mind shut against it. 

“Thank you so much Malfo—” she began, but he cut her off. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” he snapped, dredging up the best approximation he could manage of his old schoolboy sneer. “Let’s see if the Weasel is too far gone, first.” 

Granger’s smile slipped away and she glared at him. It was a relief, he told himself. A relief to have her looking at him the way he was used to, the way he expected from her. He was glad of it. He _was_. 

“Are you ready, then?” she asked coolly. “We don’t have much time to spare.” 

“Give me one minute.” 

Draco turned on his heel and retreated into his study, shutting the door behind him and leaning back against it, just briefly—long enough to clear his mind and steady his nerves. Then he went over to his desk, opened a locked door with a small key retrieved from beneath a potted succulent, and withdrew his wand. 

The moment he touched it, his magic _sang_. It whirled up from within him and danced along his skin, bright and joyous after languishing so long in disuse. Draco released an unsteady breath and swallowed hard. He let his fingers close tightly around the slender wood, let the magic flow through him, strong and fierce. Let himself have that one brief moment of feeling whole, and truly like himself again. Then he tucked the wand into his pocket and pulled his jumper down to conceal it. 

When he returned to the sitting room, Granger was pacing back and forth in precisely the spot where he had paced moments before. She looked up sharply as he entered. “That was more than one minute,” she snapped. 

“Well, we’d better be going then,” he replied, and held out his arm, crooked at the elbow. She hesitated no more than a second before looping her own through it, her fingers curling around his forearm. With the doors of his mind firmly shut, Draco did not so much as flinch at her touch before Granger Apparated them away. 

-

They reappeared in a dim corridor and Draco stood for a moment, blinking, until his eyes adjusted to the low light. Not just low, he realised, but with an eerie quality to its glow that vaguely unsettled him. He wasn’t sure if this was unique to the Department of Mysteries or if he’d simply grown so accustomed to bright Muggle lighting that he’d forgotten what light looked like when it didn’t come from electricity. 

When he felt he had sufficiently regained his bearings he turned to Granger, mildly surprised to find her watching him intently and with her arm still tucked into his. “Well then. Lead on,” he said. “No time to spare, remember?”

She rolled her eyes and tugged her arm from his, then turned left and headed down the corridor at a remarkably fast clip despite her small stature. He found he barely had to shorten his own long strides to keep up with her, and felt a completely irrational flood of pleasure at the thought. So many women walked so slowly but Granger had always—

No. Banish that thought. Shut it up and lock it away. 

Soon they reached a door which to his eyes appeared the same as all the others, but this one Granger flung open and marched through it. He followed her into a room vaguely reminiscent of a hospital ward, with four narrow cot-like beds, each flanked by a stiff and ugly armchair. Along one wall was a long table with a jumble of instruments upon it, and on the pillow of one of the cots lay the unmistakable red head of Ron Weasley. He lay still with his eyes closed, breathing shallowly. His face was paler even than usual, his freckles standing out like fever-blotches against it. Several people Draco didn’t recognise stood at the foot of the bed and collapsed in the armchair beside it, with one leg hooked over an armrest and his head lolling as he dozed, was Harry Potter. 

Draco’s shoulders tensed and his gut clenched and his fingers flexed as he forced himself not to reach for his wand. Potter was no longer his enemy, he reminded himself. He had given testimony at Draco’s trial, in fact—testimony that had kept him out of prison. Testimony he had never anticipated hearing from anyone. From Potter, certainly not. Nor from Granger. 

No. Shut that door. Shut that away. 

He looked the same, Harry Potter. Slightly taller, perhaps, but no more filled out. Hair still disheveled, same glasses, same scar. He looked tired and anxious and restless in sleep, and Draco realised with an internal sigh that perhaps he owed Potter this. He owed him _something_ , in return for his freedom, and he supposed saving the man’s best friend was as good a way to fulfil that debt as any. 

He glanced at Granger, who had gone over to Potter and put her hand on his shoulder, shaking it gently to wake him. She looked tired too, he observed, her face drawn with worry. His gut clenched again. By Merlin he would do this, Draco vowed silently, whatever it took. He would save the ginger git from the consequences of his own idiocy—for their sakes, not for his. 

He set his jaw and stepped forward, towards the assembled crowd at the foot of the bed. He cleared his throat and as one their heads turned, trapping him beneath eagle-eyed gazes. “Er, hello,” he began, “I’m—”

“Mr Malfoy, I presume.” A tall, grizzled man broke free of the pack and stepped forward, hand outstretched. “I’m Head Auror Robards, thank you for coming.” 

“Head Auror,” murmured Draco, taking the man’s hand and shaking it. 

“From what we’ve been able to deduce, Auror Weasley has been wearing the Minuot for just under five weeks,” Robards informed him, wasting no time. “It seems that it manifested for him as a league championship ring for the Chudley Cannons, with his name engraved on the side as the winning Seeker.” 

Draco snorted. 

“To any others who observed it, it appeared to be something I have been informed that Muggles call a ‘mood ring.’ The exact purpose of which escapes me, but—” 

“I know what it is,” interrupted Draco, returning Robards’ sharp look with a bland one of his own. 

“I see.” Robards stared at him intently for a moment, then continued. “By the time the drain on his magic became noticeable, the Minuot’s power was so deeply embedded within his magical core that the Healers at St Mungo’s didn’t dare attempt to remove it. He was remanded here for observation, but none of the Unspeakables has been able to figure out how to extract it either, not without causing grave and possibly fatal damage to Auror Weasley. We were, however, able to identify the Minuot and trace its connection to the Black family. As soon as we realised what it was we began looking for you, but you had vanished.” His eyes pierced Draco again. “Quite effectively.”

Into the uncharted wilds of Muggle London, thought Draco wryly. Barely two miles from here. 

“Fortunately Unspeakable Granger was able to locate you, and it seems to secure your cooperation.” A question hung unspoken in the air, to which Draco gave a firm nod in response. 

“She did,” he confirmed, and Robards relaxed—almost imperceptibly, but Draco knew how to read even the subtlest body language. A skill that had saved his life on more than one occasion.

Robards gestured to Weasley on the cot. “You have free rein, Mr Malfoy, to do whatever you think necessary. You are, quite literally, our last resort.” 

Draco cleared his throat. “Before I begin, I have to ask,” he said stiffly. “You—er—you are aware of my… history with Weasley?” Robards’ expression remained unchanged. “We weren’t exactly friends at school. You aren’t afraid I’ll take advantage of this opportunity to rid the world of him for good?” 

“Both Unspeakable Granger and Auror Potter testified for you at your trial, I believe,” replied Robards, still with that unnerving stare. “They seemed to think that you deserved a second chance. I trust you won’t squander it.” 

“No,” replied Draco, relaxing into his own relief. “I won’t.” 

He drew a deep breath as he approached the bed, withdrew his wand, flexed his fingers as his magic surged again, then cast the first of a short series of diagnostic charms—to gauge the strength of Weasley’s magical core and then to measure the extent to which the Minuot had melded with it. Magic seemed to burst from his wand, eager to do his bidding, and the words that summoned it were rusty for only a moment before they too flowed freely. It felt good to be using magic again, _so_ good, almost intoxicating—a smile played at the corner of Draco’s lips, but then he read the results of his charms and it fell away into a scowl. 

“It doesn’t look good,” he said. “The Minuot’s magic has a solid foothold in his core and has almost completely drained him. I should be able to remove it, but he’ll need a long time to recover and it’s likely he’ll never have the full strength of his magic again.” Draco looked up expecting to find Robards but instead his gaze met the cool green eyes of Potter, peering at him through his glasses. 

“Do what you have to, Malfoy,” he said, with a pleading note in his voice that made Draco uncomfortable. Potter had never begged, not once, not even when he _should_ have, no matter what Draco or—or anyone had done to him. “Just—just save him.” Potter gulped. “Please. We’ll deal with the consequences when he’s free from it.” 

Draco nodded. “This might take a while,” he informed the room at large. “So, er, settle in.” 

He reset his grip on his wand then placed the tip of it gently against the ring on Weasley’s finger. To him it appeared as exactly what it was—a thin, plain band of pure platinum imbued with intensely powerful and very ancient magic, magic woven so tightly into it as to be impossible to extract. Magic melded into the very molecules that made it up. 

He wondered briefly what Granger would think if she knew that he knew about molecules, then pushed that thought firmly away and slammed the door on it. Clearing his mind of all thoughts but those he required for his task, Draco closed his eyes and began to murmur the words of the spell that had been drilled into him from childhood. One he knew as well as he knew his own name. 

-

Hermione’s arms were tightly folded, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm on the sleeves of her jacket as she watched Malfoy perform his spell. Ordinarily, she would be right at his elbow, watching and listening closely, brimming with curiosity about this ancient blood magic. Instead she kept her distance, unable to concentrate or even stand still. She was far too worried about Ron, and, if she was honest, about what Malfoy might do to him. 

Harry appeared at her side and pulled her into a one-armed hug, running his hand soothingly up and down her arm. “Are we sure we can trust him?” he muttered, too low for any of the others to hear, giving voice her own concerns. 

“We have to,” she whispered back. “You heard Robards, we have literally no other choice.” 

Harry nodded. “I know but… it’s Malfoy. And yes, it’s been years and he’s obviously not the same as he was. I still can’t help thinking this isn’t a good idea.” 

Hermione wanted to agree, but she forced herself to remain positive. “You know he’s living as a Muggle,” she said. Harry turned to face her, blinking in surprise. 

“He is?” 

“Yeah.” Hermione’s lips quirked. “In Islington, if you can believe it.” 

Harry snorted. “I’ll admit that’s hard to picture.” 

“I wouldn’t be able to myself if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. He’s got a nice little mid-terrace on a quiet street, with no magical signature at all that I could detect aside from some pretty standard wards that felt at least a few years old. And—” She blinked herself when she realised why Malfoy had left the room before they Apparated. It should _not_ have taken her this long to connect those dots. “He didn’t have his wand on him.” She turned to her friend, eyes wide and incredulous. “Harry… I don’t think he’s done any magic for a long time.” 

Harry frowned as he let that concept form fully in his head. “Blimey. I wonder why?” he mused. 

“I don’t know.” Hermione’s least favourite three little words. “That wasn’t part of his probation, was it?” 

“Not that I know of, and anyway his probation ended years ago. Also why are you asking me, you’re the one who was at school with him that last year. I haven't seen him since his trial.” 

“Right.” She could kick herself, Hermione thought. _Where_ was her brain today? “I remember he wasn’t allowed any offensive spells or dark magic, obviously. Everything else I think he could do, though.”

“It must have been his choice then.” Harry met her eyes again, his own clouded with confusion. “But why? Why would Draco Malfoy, of all people, voluntarily give up his magic and live among Muggles?” 

There could be any number of reasons, Hermione thought, and likely some good ones too, but before she was able to sort out any of them in her mind there came a sibilant hissing sound from the direction of the cot, followed by a flare of amber light. They turned just in time to see Malfoy tug the ring from Ron’s finger and close his fist around it before stumbling backwards and collapsing into an armchair. 

“What happened?” Harry cried. “Did it work?” 

“As well as it could be expected to.” Malfoy rolled his shoulders and rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s free from the Minuot’s influence and he’ll live, but you should know, Potter”—he glanced at Hermione, no more than a flicker of his eyelid but she saw it—“ _all_ of you should know... his magical core is almost completely gone. He won’t be able to do much more than summon a handkerchief for a long time. Possibly forever.” 

“Are you certain?” Robards demanded. “What are you basing that on?” 

“Only every story I’ve ever heard about the Minuot Extenebris since I was a child,” retorted Malfoy. “And let me assure you, there were no small number of them. It’s one of the darkest objects my family owns, which, as I’ve no doubt you’ll all agree, is saying something.” 

Just then a long, drawn-out groan issued from the bed and everyone turned to see Ron slowly blink his eyes open. “What happened?” he asked hoarsely.

Hermione and Harry were at his side in an instant. She took his hand and gave it a tight squeeze while Harry clasped his shoulder and did the same. “You’ve been passed out for three days, mate,” said Harry with a weak attempt at a smile. 

“What?” croaked Ron. “How?” 

“It was that ring, Ronald,” Hermione replied, sharp and snappish in her relief. 

“What ring?” 

She heard Malfoy snort and mutter under his breath, words that sounded like _bloody gobshite_ , but she ignored him. “The ring you found in Wales,” she said, watching carefully as a flash of guilt skittered across Ron’s features. “The one you should _never_ even have touched much less put on. What were you _thinking_ , Ronald? Couldn’t you tell it was a Dark object?” 

“Don’t shout at him, Hermione,” admonished Harry, then turned back to Ron with a severe expression. It was Deputy Head Auror Potter now, she thought, and Ron had better brace himself. “Not yet, anyway. Save it for the inquest.” 

-

Draco found himself actually grinning, exhaustedly to be sure, but still a grin, as the Weasel’s already pale face turned an ashy grey and he began to sputter excuses to a severe-looking Potter and Granger. Granger, who despite her sharp words still clung tightly to his hand. Draco's gut twisted and the grin fell away, and he forced his feelings back behind their door, slammed it and locked it tight.

He stood quickly then paused as the room spun, breathing deeply until he had his bearings again. He’d used a lot of magic all at once after having gone so long using none, but so far his only symptoms were bone-deep exhaustion and now a spell of dizziness. If that was the extent of it, he’d count himself lucky. When he could open his eyes again he found Robards, watching him with those eagle eyes of his, too sharp and too observant. 

Draco smoothed his expression into one of bland politeness. “I’ll be going then, sir, unless there’s something else you require of me?” he said. 

Robards gave him a thin smile. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you palming that ring, Mr Malfoy.” 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Would you prefer I left it with you?” He held out his fist with the Minuot still clutched tightly within it. “For all that I enjoy mocking Weasley and his lack of the basic impulse control one might reasonably expect of a six-year-old, the truth is that the Minuot is nearly impossible to resist. One glance and it will consume you with the need to possess it. You won’t be able to think of anything else. Even if you never laid a finger on it, you would waste away from longing.” 

Robards’ jaw ticked. “I can’t bloody risk it,” he growled. “As much as I hate to leave it with you—and make no mistake, Mr Malfoy, I _hate_ leaving it with you—I can’t risk losing any more Aurors.” He scowled at Draco, who managed, barely, not to flinch. “The Unspeakables will continue to experiment. Now that they have some understanding of the object’s magic they can try to find a way to destroy it. Can I trust you to keep it somewhere safe until they do?” 

As safe as the Muggle world can make it, Draco thought. Aloud he said: “You can. Though I think it’s fair to warn you that I doubt there’s anything they can do. No one’s been able to destroy this ring in a thousand years.” 

“Well, I guess we’ll find out." Robards gave Draco a thin smile and offered his hand again. “Allow me to officially thank you for your help, Mr Malfoy, on behalf of the Ministry and specifically the Aurors. We owe you a debt of gratitude.” Draco took his hand and shook it once again. An odd, warm sensation rose in his chest. 

“No need to thank me,” he replied gruffly. “And there’s no debt. If anything, I’ve merely paid one off.” He glanced at the cot again and his eyes met Granger’s. The doors in his mind shook and rattled on their hinges. She was watching him with a probing sort of look that remembered all too well—it was precisely the way she used to look at the books in Hogwarts library, just before she dove into them and whittled out all their secrets. 

He did not want her in his secrets. Shut that door. Keep her in. Keep her out.

“As you like,” said Robards, and Draco dragged his attention back to the Head Auror. “You’re free to go then, Mr Malfoy, though we will be in touch with any developments.” 

“Of course. You know where to find me now.” 

“Indeed we do,” agreed Robards, with another tight smile. “You won’t be able to Apparate out of this department, however Unspeakable Granger will escort you to the lobby and apprise you of your transport options there. Granger?” 

Draco didn’t dare look at her as she said goodbye to Weasley, but when she appeared at his elbow he risked a glance. Her face was set in a polite, professional smile and her eyes gave nothing away. 

“Whenever you’re ready, Malfoy,” she said. 

He gestured towards the door with his hand and a small bow. “Lead the way, then, Granger.” 

She was silent as they walked back down the dim corridor and to the lift, silent still once they were inside. When they emerged into the grand lobby of the Ministry she turned to him. “You can Apparate from here, or there are public access Floos over there.” She gestured vaguely to her left at a wall lined with fireplaces. “Or,” she said, watching him closely, “if you head out the main doors and turn right, there’s a tube station just at the corner of this street.” 

He almost smiled. If you’re trying to be crafty, Granger, you’re going to have to do better than that, he thought. Her lack of subtlety was downright comical. There had been times, Draco could admit, when some of the things she’d done suggested she might have the makings of a Slytherin—the fate of a certain pink-clad Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher came to mind—but then she did things like this and reassured him she’d have been hopelessly out of her depth in his House. 

Aloud he said: “Thank you, I can manage from here,” then waited, smiling blandly as she stared at him. The seconds ticked by and she grew increasingly agitated, jaw tightening and fists clenching, and he could swear her hair increased in volume—but he remained where he was. When finally it became clear to her that he wasn’t going to go anywhere until she did, she gave an irritated huff that was second cousin to a snort, and turned away. 

He’d bet money she came within a hair’s breadth of stomping her foot. His doors rattled again. 

“Granger,” he called out, stopping her before she’d taken more than three steps. He told himself not to do it, no good could possibly come from it, but he wanted to see her face again. Just once more. 

She turned, still scowling. “Yes?” 

“It—” Draco paused, groping for words. “It was nice to see you.” 

Her eyes widened, then she gave an odd sort of barking laugh. “You know what Malfoy? Same. Nice is _precisely_ the word I’d use to describe it.”

Her snide sarcasm caught him off guard and he actually laughed. She joined him, almost helplessly it seemed, and for a single, shining, golden moment all the bitterness and animosity of their past melted away. Draco felt lighter than he had in years.

“Take care of yourself,” Granger said, when their mirth had faded, and he knew that for now at least she meant it. 

He swallowed hard. “You too.” 

She nodded and flashed him a smile, then turned away again, blending into the shifting crowd of people, and then she was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

_The Potions classroom is hot, steamy, with half a dozen cauldrons bubbling like mad. His tie feels too tight around his neck as he watches Granger lift her hair off hers. It’s insane in all the steam, twisting and frizzing madly around her face, and he wants to brush it back, bury his hands in it. He longs to know if it’s as soft as it looks._

_Her neck is damp and stray curls cling to it. She conjures some species of tie and wrestles for a moment until her hair is almost in submission, twisted into a tenuous-looking knot atop her head, with tendrils already springing free to brush against her cheek and taunt him. She rubs her hand down the back of her neck as she leans over to peer into their cauldron. He stares at the arch of it, the curve where it meets her shoulder, and tries not to think about how she might taste there, or the noises she’d make if he sucked—_

_“Malfoy.” She’s looking at him, with an expression that suggests she’s tried to get his attention more than once._

_“What?” The word comes out more harshly than he intends, but she doesn’t flinch. She’s heard harsher words from him, of course, in harsher tones. Something inside him shrivels._

_“I think it’s ready.” She leans over again and another bit of hair springs free. He clenches his fists. “What do you think?”_

_He casts a glance at the cauldron. The potion is the right colour and consistency from what he can tell. He forces himself to focus on the textbook. “Looks right to me,” he says. “The next step is the crushed dragonfly wings, stir four times counterclockwise, then we can finally lower the bloody temperature.”_

_She reaches for the mortar with the dragonfly wings, already meticulously crushed. “It is rather warm, isn’t it?” she murmurs. Her arm brushes his and she glances up at him. “Sorry.” She flashes him a smile then tips the wings into the cauldron. “Counterclockwise, you said?”_

-

Harry found Hermione at her desk, staring vaguely into nothing as she stirred a cup of tea with a spoon she wasn’t holding. He paused in her doorway for a moment, waiting to see if she would notice him. She did not. He shuffled his feet, frowning. Surely she must have heard him approach? He’d been to her office countless times since she began working at the Ministry and each time she’d appeared to be expecting him. Not this time. 

“Hermione?” he ventured. No response. He rapped sharply on her door. “Hermione!” 

“Oh!” She startled and the teaspoon fell, clattering against the side of the cup and sending droplets splashing over its rim. Hermione gave a self-conscious snort of laughter and whisked away the spilled tea with a silent, wandless spell he couldn’t help but envy, then looked up with a smile. “Sorry, Harry, I was miles away,” she said. “What’s up?” 

He came in and sat down in his customary chair across from her desk. “It’s not like you to get lost woolgathering,” he remarked. “Is everything okay?” 

“Oh, yes, I’m perfectly fine.” She sipped her tea. “I was just thinking about Malfoy.” 

Harry blinked. “ _Malfoy?_ ” 

“Mmhm.” 

“What about him?” Harry himself hadn’t spared more than a thought or two for his old school adversary in years, and he was prepared to bet Hermione was the same. “Is it just because we saw him recently? Or because he actually helped Ron?” 

“Yes to both of those things but it’s more than that.” She took another sip of tea than set her cup down. “I can’t stop thinking about how he’s living now,” she continued. “By himself, as a _Muggle_.” She began to gesture emphatically with her hands as she spoke, and Harry found himself glad she'd thought to set aside her teacup. “Why did he give up magic?” she demanded, more to the air than to him. “What could he possibly mean by it? And how did he do it? I bet he’d never gone a day in his life without doing things by magic or having things done for him, and then he just, what, up and quits, cold turkey? _How?_ ” 

“We don’t know that that’s what he did. He may have eased into it.” 

She threw her hands in the air. “We don’t know _anything_ , Harry! That’s what’s bothering me.” 

“Hermione, you know how you get, like a dog with a bone when there’s a mystery to solve,” he said soothingly. “You always have. There’s a reason you work for the literal Department of Mysteries.” She gave a snort of acknowledgement. “But not every mystery needs to be solved, you know.” 

“This one does,” she insisted. “I don’t know what it is, Harry, but I can’t seem to let it go. It’s been, what, two days since Malfoy was here and I’ve barely gone a minute since without thinking about him. It’s starting to affect my work. I _need_ to know.” 

“So what are you going to do?” Harry asked. Whatever it was, he thought, he’d be there to help her do it. Malfoy was nothing to trifle with, even the relatively tame version he seemed to be now, and besides Harry was out of the field until a replacement partner could be assigned to him and being out of the field was _boring_. “What _can_ you do, short of asking him directly?” 

“I may end up doing precisely that. But first…” Hermione smirked. “Muggle methods were what found him and now Muggle methods may be the key to finding out what his deal is. Harry, have you heard of Google?” 

-

_Their potion is perfect; their potions always are. Slughorn is pleased and awards them each ten house points, tells them they’re well on their way to an O in their N.E.W.T.s. Granger preens at the praise and Draco tries to. The room is still steamy, though, too hot, and he squirms uncomfortably as the class winds down. Granger’s hair is still up though it’s fighting hard against its constraints, tendril by tendril, curl by curl. He grits his teeth and tries not to look, tries to ignore her as she slips open another button on her shirt and discreetly fans herself with the placket. She shifts in her seat and crosses her legs and her skirt rides up, flashing several inches of slim thigh and smooth skin with a damp sheen. His head begins to spin and the moment Slughorn dismisses them he’s out the door, into the blissfully cool air of the corridor. He ducks into an alcove and presses back against the cold stone wall, sucking in great gulps of air. His heart is racing and his mouth is dry._

_“Malfoy?”_

_He looks up in astonishment to find Granger there, smiling hesitantly. “Are you all right?” she asks. “You ran out of class so quickly.”_

_“I’m fine.” His voice is hoarse. He scrambles to think of something to say to get her to go away, without hurting or insulting her. It’s not easy—cruelty is easy—but he can’t allow himself to slip back into old habits. She’s been so nice to him this year, so bloody nice he can barely stand it. It’s a casual sort of niceness, the kind she offers everyone because she’s the sort of person who does. It’s nothing at all to do with_ him _and he doesn’t_ want _it. He doesn’t want_ nice _from her. He’d almost rather have her hating him again, except that too is unthinkable._

_Her smile widens, takes on an edge that has him gasping, and she reaches up to release her hair from its binding. It tumbles over her shoulders in a riot of curls and every muscle in Draco’s body clenches. She takes a curl and lets it coil around her finger as she steps closer._

_“I’m glad you’re fine,” she murmurs, “though I’d like you to be a lot better than that.” She’s in his space now, so close he can smell her sweat and some sweet fragrance his frazzled brain cannot identify. Somewhere deep in his consciousness an alarm bell begins to ring._

No _, it shrieks at him._ This is not how it happened _._

-

Harry stared at the grey box sitting innocuously on the desk in the corner of Hermione’s living room. “That’s a conputer,” he said blankly. “You have a conputer.”

Hermione tutted. “ _Com_ puter, honestly Harry. Sometimes I’d never guess you were raised by Muggles.” 

“Most of the time I do my best to forget I was,” he retorted. 

“That’s—” 

“It’s not important, Hermione!” he exclaimed. He would _not_ be dragged into another debate on the value of Muggle culture. “The important thing is why? Why do you have a _com_ puter? You have magic.” 

“Computers are the future,” she informed him loftily, “and they can do things magic can’t.” 

He snorted and she scowled at him. “With this box I can find facts in seconds that would take me hours to find in a book, no matter how intricately I wove my Summoning spells. The Internet is making it possible for information to be compiled and shared in ways that were unimaginable only a few years ago. Mark my words, Harry. This—” she pointed at the grey box “—is _revolutionary_.” 

Harry wasn’t at all certain what the Internet was, and he had no intention of asking. “Okay, okay, fine, just don’t tell me any more about it,” he grumbled. “How is this going to help us with Malfoy, though?” 

Hermione sat down at the desk and pressed a button on the corner of the box. Harry’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped as the entire front of it lit up, revealing a pale blue background with small pictures lined up neatly along one side. As he watched, a tiny arrow began to move around the pictures, stopping on one. There was a clicking noise and then the small picture seemed to burst open into a larger one—a plain white background with the word _Google_ in colourful letters and a long rectangle beneath it. Hermione chuckled and he looked down to see her smirking at him. Her hand lay on a smaller grey device, this one rounded and linked to the _com_ puter by some sort of cord. He watched as her hand moved and the arrow on the _com_ puter followed the motion. 

_Aha_ , he thought. _So that’s how that works_. 

“I’m going to search the Muggle records and see if they have anything about Malfoy and what he’s been up to these past six years,” she explained. “Anything he’s done that required him to have an official presence should be here.” 

“But what if he didn’t have an official presence?” asked Harry. “Or if he concealed it somehow?” 

“That’s always possible I suppose, but if he’s been living without magic then there’s basically no way he could’ve covered up his records or falsified them.” 

“Are you sure? This _is_ Malfoy we’re talking about.” 

“Yes, and if we were talking about him in the magical world I’d say absolutely he could make anything he didn’t like disappear. But he’s a novice Muggle, Harry; however clever he may be I don’t believe he could possibly have learned enough about all this in just a few years to cover his tracks completely.” She paused, frowning, and Harry could almost see a new idea forming in her head. “That’s presuming he even _wanted_ to cover them,” she mused, again talking more to herself than to him. “More likely than not he’d simply assume there was no way anyone would even know about this sort of thing, much less come looking for it, so concealing it would hardly be worth the bother.” 

“Huh,” said Harry. “I guess that makes sense.” 

Hermione manoeuvred the arrow to the corner of the long rectangle. The clicking noise sounded again, and she began to tap on a long, grey object with alphabet blocks all jumbled up across it. 

d r a c om a l f o y she tapped, then manoeuvred the arrow again and hit the rounded device with a decisive _click_. 

“Right,” she muttered, as the picture shifted and resolved again into what appeared to be nothing but Malfoy’s name repeated over and over in bright blue letters. “Let’s see what we’ve got.” 

-

Two hours later they sat on Hermione’s sofa with tea steaming gently in untouched cups, attempting to process everything they’d learned. 

“So let me just see if I understand,” said Harry, for what must be the dozenth time. “Malfoy went to Oxford?” 

“So it seems.” 

“Oxford _University?_ ”

“That’s the one.” 

“And he studied chemistry and physics?” 

“So his records say.” 

“And before that, he travelled around the world and wrote about it?” 

“You saw the entries with your own eyes.” 

“Plog entries.” 

“ _Blog_. But yes.” 

“And now he does—” Harry paused to give himself time to get his tongue around the unfamiliar word “—mo-lec-u-lar chemistry research? Is that an actual _job?_ ”

“He consults for think tanks and universities so technically it’s not a _job_ job, he works for himself.” Hermione’s fingers were drumming a rhythmless beat on her knee, the cogs in her mind almost visibly turning. “Robards told me he emptied his Gringotts vault, so he probably doesn’t need to work at all,” she remarked. “The Galleon-to-pound exchange rate was especially high after the war.” 

“I just—” Harry paused again, attempting to gather his thoughts. “I’m having a really hard time getting my head round this.” 

“You’re not the only one.” 

Absently and in unison they picked up their teacups and took a sip. The silence stretched. 

“So… when are you going to go see him?” asked Harry.

Hermione rolled her eyes sideways but her lips curled into a smile. “I was thinking tomorrow.” 

-

_His breath catches and sticks in his throat as she steps closer. There’s not enough air in his lungs and he fights to fill them, nearly chokes as he feels her breasts press against his chest. “Granger,” he rasps, “what—”_

_“Shhh,” she hushes him, pressing a finger against his lips. “I know this is what you want. I’ve seen you watching me.”_

_“I don’t—” he clears his throat. “I don’t watch you.”_

_Her lips curl into a coy smile. “Liar,” she whispers, and then those lips are on his._

_Merlin, Draco thinks, he’s drowning and he can’t help it, he can’t stop it, can barely even think. Hermione Granger is in his arms, somehow there and kissing him… his hand is on her arse… the other is in her hair… it’s soft, so soft… softer than he’s ever dreamt… her lips are sweet, her tongue sweeter still… he can’t get enough… he’s painfully hard, harder than he’s ever been… near to bursting… all he can think about is her… skin and hair and mouth and soft and hot and he wants… oh gods he_ wants _…_

This isn’t right _, cries a voice deep in his mind._ This isn’t what happened _._

_He tries to ignore the voice, he doesn’t care, he has Granger pressed against him and she’s kissing him, touching him, letting him touch her… this is all his deepest fantasies come to life and he_ wants _it, he doesn’t care that it’s wrong…_

But it _is_ wrong, _says the voice._ This isn’t what happened. This isn’t real _._

_This will never be real_. 

Draco awoke with a start, gasping and drenched in sweat, the fantasy images still bright and vivid in his mind—the feel of Granger’s hair in his hands, her taste on his tongue… He pressed his fingers against his temples and tried to push those thoughts away, shut the door on them as he had done with so many others of their kind. These were different, though, these dreams—if dreams indeed they were. It didn’t seem possible—they were so _real_ —full of smells and sounds and sensations. Hallucinations, perhaps? Mirages? Draco groaned and pressed his temples harder. He hardly knew anymore. He hardly knew anything. He wasn’t even sure what day it was. The clock on his nightstand read 9.30 am. Morning, good, but meaningless without the day. He couldn’t remember going to bed. How long had he been out? Why couldn’t he remember? And what was that bloody irritating noise? 

Oh, right, his doorbell. 

He flung off his duvet and got to his feet, swayed for a moment, then grabbed his dressing gown, throwing it on and belting it with far less than his usual precision and attention to detail. He teetered down the stairs, clinging to the railing as he went, stumbled when he reached the bottom and nearly collapsed against his front door. Steadying himself with a tight grip on the handle, he pulled it open. 

“Yes yes, what the bloody— _Granger_.” He squeezed his eyes shut, ran his hand over his face and blinked hard several times before looking down again, hoping against hope that she would have disappeared—she always did, of course, in his dreams. But this was no dream, nor even a hallucination. It was Granger, there on his doorstep, in the flesh, looking determined.

“Hey, Malfoy.” She smiled at him and his cock—still hard from his fantasy of her as a fucking _schoolgirl_ , what by Salazar’s balls was _wrong_ with him—twitched. He scowled. 

“This isn’t a good time.” 

“Oh.” She bit her lip and he gritted his teeth against a vicious curse. “I can come back later…” 

“No!” He didn’t want the agony of anticipating another visit. “No, it’s fine. Come in. Please tell me Weasley’s hexed his bollocks off this time.” 

“No, it’s—” she broke off as she stepped inside and he attempted to move back to make room. But he moved too quickly and his head spun and he stumbled backwards hard against the wall. 

“Malfoy! Are you all right?”

The words echoed from his earlier fantasy and he groaned. “No, don’t—” he protested as she pressed her hand against his forehead, then whipped out her wand and cast several quick-fire charms. 

“What the hell, Malfoy!” she snapped. “This is thaumaturgical overload. You should be in hospital!” 

Desperately, Draco groped for his sneer. “Oh yes, because that’s something that Islington Central Medical Centre can easily treat.” 

“Go to St Mungo’s!” 

“No. I’ll be fine, Granger, I just need to ride it out.” 

“Ride it out, Merlin’s wrinkled arse,” she scoffed. “Bloody men, I swear to Circe... suffering does not make you strong, you know.” 

“I never said it—” 

“Always trying to be _stoic_ ,” she continued, as though he hadn’t spoken. “ _Tough_ it out. As though there weren’t perfectly good treatments available, _readily_ available, mind, to make you better.” 

“I didn’t—” 

“Go upstairs,” she commanded, in that snotty, bossy tone he remembered all too well from school, pointing with her wand at his staircase. “Now.”

“I—what?” 

She raised her eyebrows. “I presume that’s where your bedroom is?” 

“Er—yes.” 

“Go upstairs and get in bed. I am going to brew you the quickest potion I can and bring it up to you, then you are going to drink it while I cast some very simple charms on you, and _then_ you are going to go to sleep. When you wake up, I will be here to check on you and you will be feeling better. Do you understand?” 

He gave a small nod. “Yes.” 

“Do you have any objections to this plan?” 

He wouldn’t dare, thought Draco. “No.” 

“Go, then. I’ll be up in a minute.” 

He gulped, then nodded again. “First door on the left,” he murmured as he fled up the stairs, resolutely not thinking about how in a few moments’ time Hermione Granger would be in his bedroom. 

-

He was near delirium by the time she arrived bearing a steaming cup of something that smelled deeply unpleasant. The odour and the steam sent his consciousness teetering back towards the fantasy Potions classroom again but he managed, barely, to cling to his awareness of his surroundings and of the Granger who stood before him. The real Granger, the one who most certainly did not wish to kiss him and who, if he didn’t drink her noxious brew, might well hex him. 

His hand shook as he reached for the mug so she held it for him as he gulped it down, grimacing at the taste, then collapsed back in his bed. Whatever it was she'd given him, its effect was instantaneous and Draco had only the vaguest sensation of his duvet being pulled up to cover him before he succumbed to unconsciousness. 

When he awoke again he’d had no dreams; in fact it seemed to him mere moments later that his eyes fluttered open at the sound of Granger’s voice murmuring a greeting, though it must have been hours as the pale glow of moonlight now shone through his window. Granger had another cup of her hideous potion and this time he was able to hold it for himself as he drank and she cast her diagnostic charms. 

“You’re getting better,” she said. “More sleep and another dose and you should be reliably lucid again.” 

He stared at her as in his still-fevered mind she wavered between the cool, unruffled witch he knew her now to be and the brilliant, chaotic girl of his fantasies. Was that girl still in there somewhere, he wondered? Did she still suck on the end of her quill and use her wand to hold up her hair when she couldn’t be bothered to summon a hair tie? 

“Stop looking at me like that, Malfoy, it’s creepy,” she grumbled. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be up again in a few hours.” 

Hours more of her in his house, surrounded by his things, he thought. Things that showed who he was, what he’d done, how he lived. Draco tried to object, but the words caught in his throat and came out as a croak. 

“Don’t worry.” She smirked at him. “I summoned myself some work to do and am sitting quietly on your sofa while doing it. I haven’t even touched any of your books, though I have to say”—the smirk deepened—“you have a _surprising_ collection of them. Who’d have thought Draco Malfoy would turn out to be a fan of Louis L’Amour?” 

Draco groaned but his eyes were falling shut again and he felt himself sucked away and into a dream. A a wild, nonsensical dream of himself and Granger on the American frontier, the two of them alone together, fighting off claim jumpers and war chieftains and droughts. Working their land, as a team. Building themselves a house. Filling it with family. Making it a home. 

_A home_. 

Draco jerked awake, gasping. 

“Ah, there you are. Right on time. How do you feel?” 

He rubbed his eyes then forced them open. Sunlight was shining with offensive brightness through his window and Granger was sitting on the side of his bed, another cup steaming gently in her hand. This one smelled marginally less objectionable than the others had, and Draco hesitantly accepted it. 

“Better, I think,” he replied. His muscles ached and his voice was still a croak, but as he drank the potion he felt his body relax and his mind grow calm. 

“Lucid?” Granger asked, giving him a probing look. 

He risked a nod. “Tolerably so.” 

“Good.” She summoned a notebook—wandlessly, he couldn’t help noticing—and a Muggle pen and scribbled something he couldn’t see. 

“What are you writing?” 

“Just keeping track of your symptoms and the potions I’ve been giving you.” 

He shot her a dubious look. “What potions _have_ you been giving me?” 

Her lips curled into a smile that if he didn’t know better he’d describe as mischievous. “Whyever do you ask, Malfoy?” she inquired sweetly. “Afraid I might poison you?” 

“The thought had crossed my mind.” 

“Mmm,” she hummed, still smiling. “And your mind’s been rather a difficult one for a thought to cross for a while now, I’d imagine.” 

His lips quirked. 

“Don’t worry.” Her expression softened though her smile remained in place. “It wouldn’t be very sporting of me to murder you when you’re only in this condition because you agreed to help Ron.” Draco’s gut clenched at the sound of Weasley’s name on her lips and he wrenched his gaze from her face, missing the shrewd look she gave him. “How long has it been since you used magic?” 

There was no point in lying, she knew perfectly well what had made him unwell. He shrugged, attempting nonchalance. “A while.” 

“And were you aware of how using so much after—I’m going to go with _years_ —of using none, would affect you?” 

“I had an idea.” 

She huffed a sigh. “You are absolutely infuriating, do you know that?” 

He looked up again, drawn inexorably by his desire simply to see her face. “No one’s forcing you to stay here and put up with me,” he snapped, wishing both that she were closer and very, very far away. “Why _are_ you here anyway?” 

She dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. “We’ll discuss that when you’re well.” 

“I thought I was well.” 

“You’re _better_. It’ll still be three or four days until you’re fully recovered and you’re going to need someone to look after you during that time.” 

Draco choked.

“Fortunately, I’ve got some holiday owed me, so—” 

“ _No!_ ” he snarled. “You can’t be serious.” 

She looked affronted. “I’ll have you know I’m actually quite a competent Healer, I took an enrichment course—” 

“That’s not what I meant!” Draco scrambled to think of what he did mean, or at least what he could tell her he meant because he sure as bloody fuck couldn’t say _I don’t want you in my house because I already think about you far too much and if you’re here in my space for so long I may never be free of you._

He drew a steadying breath. “I just meant that you shouldn’t have to waste your holiday that way.” 

She waved her hand again. “I’ve got so much and I hardly ever use it. The department head was delighted when I put in the request, normally she’s got to force me to stay home.” Granger gave him a wry smirk. “Once a swot always a swot, I suppose.” 

Her tone was light and careless but it couldn’t quite disguise the unhealed wound that lay beneath. Draco knew he shouldn’t say anything, should just let it go, but the words were out before he could stop himself.

“I always admired that about you, you know,” he heard himself saying. Her eyes snapped up to meet his and she frowned at him, so darkly he had to force himself not to squirm. “How studious you were, I mean.” 

“You honestly expect me to believe that there’s _any_ thing you ‘always admired’ about me?” she scoffed. 

“I didn’t say I _wanted_ to admire it, just that I did,” he shot back. “It’s a very different thing.” 

“Hmph. I suppose.” 

“Well anyway it doesn’t matter, you still can’t use your holiday to mind me like I’m some helpless child,” he groused. “I’ll be fine.”

“Yes you will. In another few days after I’ve monitored your condition and ensured that you take all your potions.” 

“Gran _ger!_ ” 

“Malfoy.” She folded her arms and glared at him. 

“I will not allow you to do this!” 

“Oh?” She raised her eyebrows in an imperious expression that made him want to snarl. “And how do you plan to stop me? You can try to fight me, of course, or attempt to throw me out bodily, but I promise you, you do _not_ have the strength. For either of them.” 

He groaned and fell back into his pillows. She was right. 

“Fine,” he snapped. “Stay. But the minute I’m well enough to manage on my own, I’m kicking you out on your arse.” 

Her smile was smugly satisfied. “I’m certain when that time comes it will be my pleasure to leave.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had way too much fun writing Harry's reaction to a 2005 computer, and also considering I was a full-fledged adult in 2005 with a computer of my own, it was disturbingly difficult to remember what they looked like back then.


	4. Chapter 4

Hermione left Malfoy drowsing again and returned to the nest she’d made on the sofa in his living room. It wouldn’t do for the long-term of course—she fully intended to make use of the guest room her low-key snooping under the guise of ‘looking for the bathroom’ had revealed. But for the past twelve hours or so she had comfortably bunkered down there with some work that needed finishing, curled up in the blanket she’d found draped across the back of it. It was a thick blanket, generously sized, woven of slightly rough wool with a pattern of stripes in muted colours that made her think of the American Southwest. Which was perhaps unsurprising given Malfoy’s apparent and astounding fondness for Louis L’Amour. 

Cowboy novels, an American blanket. Hermione sat and wrapped herself in it again as she tried to recall what she had skimmed of the blog he’d written about his travels. Now she came to think about it, there _had_ been several entries set in the United States. Something about a road trip? Route 66? She made a mental note to read it more carefully the next time she had access to a computer. 

Malfoy had a computer. She’d seen it in his office. Far more expensive than hers, higher spec, so sleek she didn’t dare touch it, even if snooping in his computer weren’t a step too far even for her. She may have checked out every room in his house but she drew the line at poking through his medicine cabinet or his Internet search history. Some lines even she wouldn’t cross. 

It was all so _bizarre_ though. The more she learned about how Malfoy had been living the itchier her skin became, so desperate was she to get to the bottom of this mystery. The same questions kept rolling around and around in her head, with no answers in sight. Why was Draco Malfoy living like a Muggle? Why had he given up magic? Why was he willing to do something he knew would make himself seriously ill to save the life of Ron Weasley? 

He may not have known quite how severely the magic use would affect him, though, she reasoned. He may have thought it would be a day or two of fever and chills, nothing more. Still. The Malfoy she knew wouldn’t have so much as vaguely inconvenienced himself for Ron’s sake, much less made himself ill to fix a problem that was Ron’s own fault in the first place, one that didn’t affect Malfoy at all one way or another. It was all just so _bloody_ baffling.

With a frustrated huff, Hermione stood from the sofa and went into the kitchen to make herself some tea. Malfoy had no tea bags, something she had rolled her eyes at when she discovered—because _of course_ he didn’t—but the truth was she didn’t mind at all. On the contrary it was nice, soothing in fact, to go through the ritual of brewing loose-leaf tea in a pot. An antique silver pot, unless she missed her guess, and bone china cups. No heavy stoneware mugs bearing amusing slogans about caffeine or Mondays for Draco Malfoy, however authentically Muggle he was pretending to be. 

Everything in his house was like that. Expensive. High quality. Meaningful, like the blanket. Not at all ostentatious, like his family’s manor. No peacocks, no portraits, no garish tapestries. Nothing but understated taste and elegance. 

She liked it. She liked it a lot. She kind of hated how much she liked it. 

Hermione filled her teacup then placed a lump of sugar on her spoon, held it just below the liquid’s surface and watched as it slowly dissolved. She wished she could remember more about what Malfoy had been like at school that last year. She knew he’d been different, that much at least had registered. But Hermione herself had been in a sort of fog back then, so focused on her N.E.W.T.s and on picking up the pieces of her life after the war that she hadn’t had the headspace for much of anything else. 

She remembered his apology, and how surprisingly sincere he’d seemed. How his voice had broken over certain words. The clench of his jaw and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. The shame in his eyes, even through his best attempt at Occlumency. She would have accepted it no matter what, for the sake of moving forward, but to her astonishment she’d found that her forgiveness was just as sincere as his apology. 

She remembered smiling at him and offering her hand, remembered the flush that crept across his cheekbones as he took it and the faint twitch of his lips. 

But then classes had started and she’d thrown herself into her studies. And Malfoy had never approached her again. 

She remembered him in Potions, where he had been diligent and precise—something she’d never experienced in a partner before and had greatly appreciated—and their results had always been exceptional. She remembered some looks of quiet pleasure on his face when they’d managed a particularly difficult brew, or when Slughorn praised them. He’d smiled occasionally when she attempted a joke. Mostly though his face had been set and his eyes cool. Polite but distant. 

Although. 

She remembered now, now that she was actually digging for the memories, a few occasions that had startled her. Moments when she’d glanced up unexpectedly, in Potions class or in the library, and caught his eyes on her—his expression unnervingly intense, full of an emotion she hadn’t been able to identify. They’d lasted no longer than a blink, those looks, disappearing behind his cool mask the instant he realised she was aware of them. She’d dismissed them as nothing—hadn’t had the emotional or intellectual energy for them, if she was honest—but now she remembered them and they puzzled her.

All of Malfoy puzzled her. 

What baffled her the most is that none of it seemed like playacting. Not a bit of it was performative, in any way. And coming from the boy who’d parlayed a scratch on his arm into a life-threatening injury, that was—well, it was saying something. It couldn’t be more plain to Hermione that Malfoy hadn’t expected to see her or anyone else from his old life ever again, or intended for any of them to see how he was living. Which meant, as impossible as it seemed, that all of this was real. It wasn’t Malfoy putting on a show to convince people he’d changed, it was him actually having changed. 

And in more than just lifestyle and magic. 

It occurred to Hermione that if she met the man upstairs on the street she might not recognise him. The white-blond hair was a bit of a giveaway, of course, but aside from that… he wasn’t the same as the sneering boy who’d taunted her at Hogwarts, or even the quieter, more thoughtful one from the eighth year. He’d grown into his face, for one, into cheekbones and a chin that no longer seemed pointy as much as… she hated to use the word _chiselled_ but, well—it fit. His face looked carved from marble and he’d grown taller, too. No more than a few inches she reckoned but it made a striking difference, particularly coupled with the way he stood—straight and with his shoulders back. Not with the puffed-out chest of his youth or the post-war defensive hunch but simply confident, the stance of a man who knew who he was and felt comfortable in his skin. 

Skin she’d seen rather a lot of over the past few hours, as this new Malfoy it seemed was one who slept in pajama bottoms but not their tops. She hadn’t meant to look but the pale pink scar across his chest had caught her eye, and then—well. She’d already been looking, might as well do it properly. 

Her head flooded with images of that expanse of marble skin and the lean muscles that flexed beneath it. Malfoy was still slender but there was a taut strength in his form now, a sturdiness in his arms and shoulders and chest… Hermione gave her head a firm shake and banished those thoughts. Ogling a man suffering from delirium—no, not _ogling_ , that wasn’t the word at all. Looking. Seeing? _Observing_ , yes, that was it—closely observing a man suffering from delirium was at least one more boundary she didn’t feel comfortable enough to push. 

And anyway, she had more important things to consider. Like what the fuck Malfoy’s deal was and how she might manage to ferret—pun _not_ intended—the information out of him. 

She drained the last of her tea then with a careful spell cleaned the cup and pot and tidied them away. Back in the sitting room, she folded Malfoy’s blanket neatly and returned it to its spot over the back of the sofa, tidied her papers, then picked up the overnight bag she’d summoned from her flat and headed upstairs to the guest room. 

On her way there, she poked her head into Malfoy’s bedroom. He was sound asleep and much more peacefully than he had been before—his body relaxed beneath the duvet and his breathing soft and even. She cast a quick charm to check his condition and smiled at the results. It was looking good. The potions were working well and the flood of magic in his system settling back to normal levels again. He really would be completely recovered in a day or two. She’d have to move fast. 

The last thing she saw before she shut the door behind her was a beam of moonlight slanting from his window and across Malfoy’s face, catching the edge of his cheekbone and illuminating his pale hair with a gentle glow. 

-

The next morning she was in the kitchen again, sipping on another cup of tea when the door swung open and Malfoy appeared, still in his pajamas—the bottom half of them at least—and his dressing gown, belted at his waist with a very precise knot. He looked reasonably alert though his movements were slow, deliberate in a way that suggested it cost him no small amount of effort to make them. 

She scowled. “What do you think you’re doing in here?” 

“I’m the one who lives here, Granger,” he retorted. “Lest you forget. I can’t help noticing you’ve made yourself quite the little nest in my sitting room.” 

“Well, you did tell me to make myself at home.” 

“Did I?” 

“Mmhmm. The first time I came by.” She watched him, closely enough to spot the moment he remembered what he’d said and his brow creased in a frown. “I assumed the offer didn’t have an expiry date.” 

“As you like,” he replied shortly, and with a visible attempt to smooth out his expression. “I suppose you might as well if you insist on staying here. Though there is a guest room—” 

“Oh, I found it,” she informed him blithely. “I made myself at home there too.” 

His frown returned, just for a moment before smoothing itself away, to be replaced by a smirk that Hermione could only describe as _amused_. “You’re a bloody pest, you know that Granger?” 

She felt her own lip quirk. “So I’ve been reliably informed.” 

He moved into the room and carefully took a seat next to her at the kitchen island. “Is the tea still warm?” 

It was, as she had put it under a stasis charm, but Hermione judged it best not to mention that. Instead she retrieved a second cup poured his tea, adding a generous splash of milk but no sugar. 

Surprise flared briefly in his eyes but he accepted the cup without comment, and for a moment they sipped in remarkably companionable silence. 

“You never answered my question,” Hermione said, once Malfoy had drained most of his cup. 

“Oh? And what question was that?”

“What you’re doing down here. You should be in bed.” 

“Granger.” Malfoy gave her a look of exaggerated patience. “You cannot _possibly_ expect me to lie in bed all day and twiddle my thumbs when I’m perfectly fine—” 

“You’re _not_ fine,” she snapped, irritated by his supercilious tone. “You’re still in recovery.” She whipped out her wand and performed the diagnostics. “See? Magic levels still spiky and elevated. You can’t be under unnecessary strain.” 

“I _feel_ fine,” he protested. “And I’ve already spent far too much time in bed, it must be at least a full day if not more.” 

“Mmm. Three days, I think you’ll find. Nearly four.” 

“ _Four!_ What day is this?” 

“Friday.” 

“Bloody _hell!_ ” He leapt to his feet. “I have to make a phone call.” 

Pausing just long enough to shake off the feeling of _weird_ that came over her at hearing Malfoy casually drop ‘phone call’ into the conversation, Hermione charged through the kitchen door right at his heels and followed him into his office. “Malfoy! You can _not_ overexert yourself!” she cried. “You’ll bring on a relapse!” 

He spun around with his hands held out, fingers splayed, and an imploring look on his face. “Granger I promise you, if you will give me an hour to sort some things out then I will go back to bed like a good little patient and spend the rest of the day there. But I have deadlines I’m not going to be able to meet and I need to rearrange them. Can you at least give me time to do that?” 

She hesitated. “An hour? You promise?” 

“I swear by Salazar.” 

“All right, then.” She jabbed her finger at the air in front of him. “I intend to hold you to it.” 

He snorted. “I would expect nothing less of you.” 

“Well. Good.” 

They stood, separated by only a foot or two of space, each waiting, so Hermione surmised, for the other to move. When neither did, he gave an exaggerated sigh and a roll of his eyes. 

“If you wouldn’t mind?” he said, gesturing at the door. 

Hermione huffed and spun around, stalked out of the room and shut the door behind her. She took three heavy steps in place then a few more lighter ones, then turned and pressed her ear to the wood. 

“I know you’re still there, Granger,” came Malfoy’s voice, half-irritated, half-amused. “Piss off now, if you would be so kind, and do not cast any eavesdropping charms or leave behind any of the other little tricks I’m sure you and Potter and the Weasel have up your collective sleeve.” 

Hermione’s cheeks flushed hot and she had to force herself not to stamp her foot. “Fine,” she snapped. “But I’ll be back here in precisely one hour.” She turned on her heel and stomped away. 

“I look forward to it,” Malfoy called after her. 

-

Hermione sat herself on the sofa and attempted to focus on her work. She lasted very nearly a full ten minutes before having to concede that her legendary concentration had, possibly for the first time ever, deserted her. The words she was trying to read swam before her eyes, eyes she couldn’t keep from flitting up every few seconds to the door of Malfoy’s office—just visible from where she was sitting but too far away for her to overhear anything. Never had she wished so hard for a pair of Extendable Ears. 

She hissed out a breath and forced her attention back to her work, reminding herself that there was no particular reason why she needed to hear the details of Malfoy’s current work projects. She knew what he did for a living—the basics of it anyway—and frankly she had other, much more pressing questions about his life and choices. It was just the fact that he didn’t _want_ her overhearing… that he had actually kicked her out of his office, in fact… that brought her simmering curiosity to the boiling point. 

The hour ticked by at an excruciating pace. Hermione forced herself not to keep checking the time, instead amusing herself by planning out precisely what she would say when the hour was up and she would have an excuse to interrupt him. She had just hit upon the perfect phrasing when the office door opened—a full five minutes early—and Malfoy emerged, wearing a smirk that said clearly he knew exactly how much being deprived of the opportunity to charge in and nag him would irritate her. 

“See, Granger?” he said. “Here I am, still perfectly fine and even finished early.” 

“Good,” she replied, swallowing back a much sharper retort. “Go back to bed.” 

He ignored her, instead sitting down in the same armchair he’d occupied during her first visit. A tall, wingback chair upholstered in buttery brown leather, expertly crafted and in excellent condition but with a slight indentation in the cushion and a faint darkening on the armrests right where Malfoy’s hands would sit that suggested it was his preferred spot. 

“Save your glares, Granger,” he said mildly, and Hermione belatedly realised how darkly she was scowling at him. “I’ve been in bed for three days, I need a change of scene. Surely sitting in a chair rather than in a bed is not so taxing as to send me immediately spiralling into relapse?” 

“No,” she had to acknowledge. “Probably not.” 

He settled deeper into the chair, leaning his head back and folding his hands in his lap. “So what is it you’re working on?” he asked. 

_It’s confidential,_ she wanted to inform him loftily. _Department of Mysteries, you know_. Instead she heard herself snap “Oh, so you can ask about _my_ job but I can’t ask about yours?” 

“You can ask about my job. I just don’t like people listening to my conversations.” 

“Oh.” That was fair, honestly. “All right.” She set her papers aside and gave him an attentive look. “Tell me about your job.” 

His lip quirked. “Are you interviewing me? Or is it an interrogation?” 

“It’s just conversation, Malfoy, maybe you’ve heard of it.” 

“ _I_ have. Have you?” 

She opened her mouth then shut it again sharply when she could produce no good response. He smirked, then drawled “I’ll do you the credit of assuming you’ve already dug up as much information about me as you can, so likely you already know that I work as a freelance consultant in molecular chemistry.” 

She gave a tight nod. “Yes.” 

“I thought as much. Google?” 

“Yes.” 

Malfoy chuckled. “You’re so delightfully predictable, Granger.” 

“How is _that_ predictable?” Hermione bristled, determinedly ignoring how warm his laugh sounded, and how pleasant. 

“Come now.” He leaned his elbows on the chair arms and steepled his fingers, like a bloody Bond villain, thought Hermione crossly. “The Aurors couldn’t find me on their own, despite all their Detection charms, Tracing spells and other tricks. They must have exhausted every means at their disposal and still come up empty, and so finally in desperation they were forced to call on _you_ , the brightest witch of her age, Order of Merlin, Muggle-born extraordinaire. Which would mean admitting they’d failed, something they absolutely would not do unless they were truly at their wits’ end, likely not until Weasley was on the point of death. Yet he was still alive enough to save by the time I got there, meaning you had to have found me in less than a day. Anything you’d care to contradict in that, Granger?” 

“No, but I don’t see what it has to do with—” 

“To locate me so quickly it’s obvious you didn’t bother wasting time with magic but went straight to Muggle means,” he interrupted, then raised an eyebrow. “The phone book?” 

Hermione scowled. “Yes.” 

“Naturally. Ingeniously simple and something only you would think of.” 

She blinked. Had Malfoy just _complimented_ her? 

“And having succeeded so well with that,” he continued, “not to mention establishing that I’m living completely off the Wizarding grid, you would of course stick with what had worked before when you decided to investigate me.” 

She had to force herself not to grind her teeth. _How_ had he read her so accurately? 

“You see?” he gloated. “Predictable.” 

“Yes, well done Sherlock,” she snapped. “And for your next trick I suppose you’re going to tell me everything I learned about you.” 

He smiled, an actual, genuine smile that curved his lips and creased his cheeks and twinkled in his eyes. Her breath caught and she found she couldn’t look away. “I searched myself on Google in my office just now, so I have a decent idea,” he replied. 

“Let’s dispense with the pretence, then,” she said, relieved her voice came out cool and steady. “And both acknowledge that I know as much about you as the Internet can provide.” 

“Very well.” 

“Good. Then we can go straight to you explaining what, precisely, a molecular chemist does.” 

Malfoy’s smile widened. “You know, it’s rare that I get a chance to talk about my work with someone who might actually understand it,” he remarked. “My clients tend to just want things done, they don’t care about the details of the process. Although,” he shook his head, “if someone had told me six years ago that I’d ever be explaining Muggle science to Hermione Granger I’d have thought they were mad. Hell, if anyone had said it last _week_ I’d have thought they were mad.” 

“Six years ago you’d probably have hexed them,” Hermione muttered, before she could think better of it. Malfoy’s smile went instantly cold and his eyes shuttered. 

“Seven years ago, perhaps,” he said stiffly. “Or more.” 

An uncomfortable feeling twisted in Hermione’s chest, then settled in her stomach with all the grace of a boulder. It felt—though she wasn’t terribly well acquainted with the sensation—like guilt. She wanted to scoff at it, to protest that there was no reason to feel guilty simply for stating what was true. Malfoy _would_ at one time have hexed anyone who’d so much as suggested he might take an interest in anything Muggle. That was just a fact. 

A fact that, perhaps, she needn’t have have spoken aloud. 

“I’m… sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that.” 

His expression softened. “It’s fine. It’s true.” 

“True things don’t always need to be pointed out,” she replied. “Sometimes I forget that.” 

Their eyes met and held, and Hermione found she was holding her breath. The moment stretched until it seemed endless, though in reality it was only a second or two before Malfoy gave a small nod and looked away. “Thank you,” he said, so softly she barely heard him, then looked up again with Occlumency firmly in place. 

“So.” He raised both eyebrows this time, and steepled his fingers again. “I’m assuming you know what molecules are?”

Hermione matched his haughty expression. “Of course.” 

“Tell me.” 

“They’re the smallest particles of pure chemical substances that still retain their composition and chemical properties,” she recited. 

A smile teased the corners of his mouth. “You’ve done your homework. How _unpredictable_.” 

“Am I wrong?” 

“Of course not. You’re very precisely right. But do you know what that means?” 

“Well, it means that… the molecule is the smallest bit of something you can get.” He nodded, encouraging her. “So… you can break the molecule down more… but then… it’s not itself anymore? It’s a different substance?” 

The smile was back in force, a pleased one this time and oddly eager. “Essentially, yes.” He leaned forward, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. “Take water, for instance. It’s one of the most fundamental chemical compounds, made up of two atoms of hydrogen and one of oxygen.” He paused, shooting her a questioning look. 

“Still with you,” she assured him, with a small eye roll and an almost teasing lilt to her voice. “Carry on.” 

The smile became a full-on grin, then softened into an earnest expression as he began to speak again. “So these three elements bond to form a single water molecule,” he explained. “But if you break those bonds, what you have isn’t water anymore, it’s just hydrogen and oxygen.”

“So the water molecule is the smallest water can get and still be water,” concluded Hermione. “That makes sense.” 

“Exactly!” He nodded approvingly. “And _that’s_ molecular chemistry in a nutshell—the study of those chemical bonds and how they’re formed and broken and how that relates to the structure of—well, of everything.” 

“Wow.” Despite herself, Hermione was impressed. It sounded complex and fascinating. “So what do you do with that? As a job, I mean?” 

“Well, right now a lot of what I do relates to pharmaceuticals. Don’t give me that look, Granger, it’s what’s in demand and all above board. But I have some other research interests that I pursue in my own time.” 

Hermione smoothed the scowl from her face and with effort held on to the volley of questions she wanted badly to unleash. Malfoy looked as though he would eagerly answer each and every one of them, but she could see the tightness of strain around his eyes and the faint greyish cast that had crept across his skin, and knew she couldn’t risk taxing him any further at this point in his recovery. 

“I’d actually love to hear about them,” she said. “Later.” 

“I can—” 

“Right now what you can do is take another potion,” she interrupted, then when he opened his mouth again to protest, quickly added “I won’t make you go upstairs to take it. This one shouldn’t knock you out, so you can stay down here if you must. But no more talking, okay?” 

He pouted. There was no other word for it. Draco Malfoy sat in his leather armchair and his silk dressing gown in his elegant London townhouse and _pouted_ at her. 

“You’re the one who wanted answers, Granger,” he muttered. 

“I still do,” she replied soothingly. “But they can wait. Why don’t you, er, read a book or something. I shouldn’t be long.” 

“All right,” he agreed, but made no move to rise. She was about to make a sarcastic remark when he shifted to lean his arm more securely against his chair and she noticed the faint tremor that shook his fingers. 

“What book would you like?” she demanded. 

He shot her a grateful look, so brief she nearly missed it. “ _The Historian_. It’s over there on the shelf.” 

A vampire novel. That was—well, Hermione wasn’t sure _what_ to make of it anymore. She retrieved the book without comment, handed it to him, and fled to the kitchen before her curiosity could get the better of her and jeopardise his recovery. 

-

The rest of the day passed more pleasantly than Hermione could ever have imagined time spent in the company of Malfoy could possibly do. He obediently downed the potion followed by a cup of tea, then sat quietly in his chair and read while she made another attempt to work. After the fourth—or possibly fifth—time Malfoy looked up to find her gazing at him or at his bookshelves rather than the papers on her lap, he gave a drawn-out sigh.

“Give it up, Granger,” he said. “You’re fooling no one.” 

“I don’t know what you—” 

“Just go take a book. It’s obvious you’re dying to.” 

“ _Any_ book?” She couldn’t keep the eagerness from her voice. 

Malfoy looked like he was trying hard to smirk but couldn’t quite manage it. “Any one you like,” he replied. 

Hermione leapt to her feet and hurried to his bookshelf. It was made of dark wood, built-in, taking up one entire wall of the room from floor to ceiling. She let her fingers trail across the bindings, marvelling at the eclectic mix of authors and genres. There were heavy, leather-bound tomes that wouldn’t be out of place at Hogwarts but also paperbacks so worn she’d bet money on them having been toted around the world in a backpack during his travels. It was one of these that she chose, and when she settled back onto the sofa and Malfoy saw her selection, his eyebrows rose in genuine astonishment. 

“Kerouac?” he burst out. “Really?” 

“What?” she demanded. “I’ve heard of him.” 

He shook his head. “I will definitely be interested to hear your thoughts on that one, Granger.” 

“I’ll be sure to offer them, then, Malfoy.” 

They sneered companionably at each other for a moment then returned to their reading. 

-

Around three in the afternoon Hermione realised quite suddenly that she was starving. She set the book down on the coffee table with a smack—she definitely had Thoughts about it, Malfoy was not wrong there—and announced her discovery. 

“I’m hungry!” she exclaimed. 

“About bloody time you realised it,” he retorted. “I could barely hear myself think above the growling of your stomach.” 

“You could have said something if it bothered you so much!” 

Malfoy set his own book aside and gave her a mildly patronising look. “Granger, I’m not sure if you know this about yourself, but when you get caught up in reading you don’t take much notice of the world around you. I tried to get your attention well over an hour ago but finally had to give it up as a bad job.” 

“Oh.” She felt her cheeks grow warm, warmer still when she noticed the amusement in his eyes. “Um, so should we eat something then?” 

“That is the usual remedy for hunger,” he remarked. “I can make us some—” 

“No!” she cried, leaping up before he could stand and glowering at him, hands on her hips. 

“Nothing big, just a bit of—” 

“I said no, Malfoy! It’s too much exertion when you’ve already done more than you ought today. I can cook us something.” 

He looked skeptical. “ _Can_ you?” 

“Well… no, not really.” Hermione’s knack with potions had never really translated into other kinds of recipes. “I could manage some sandwiches though.” 

“You really plan to go a whole day on nothing but tea and a sandwich?” he scoffed. “Please tell me you eat better than that when you’re at home.” 

“Well, not really if I’m honest,” she admitted. “I often forget to eat at work and by the time I get home I’m usually too tired to bother.” 

Malfoy’s jaw tightened and he muttered something she couldn’t quite hear. 

“What was that?” she demanded. “Who’s a gobshite?” 

“Nobody.” Malfoy smoothed his scowl away then offered her a careful smile. “Do you like Thai food?” 

“Um.” She blinked at him. “Yes I do. Er—do _you_ like Thai food?” 

“Yes I do.” 

“Really?” 

“Really.” 

“ _You?_ ”

“Me.” Malfoy sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Granger, listen.” His expression was serious now, earnest and ever so faintly sad. “I know we’re not friends and not likely ever to become so. But if we’re going to be constantly in each other’s company for the next few days can we at least establish that I do things and know things and like things that you wouldn’t have expected me to do or know or like at school, and stop being continually surprised by that fact? I know I’ve changed a lot and honestly I’m glad of it. It was very much intentional. But I’d still rather not have it thrown in my face all the time, _if_ you think you can manage to restrain yourself.” 

This attempt at snark had no teeth at all, and the boulder of guilt settled once again in Hermione's gut. Her assertive posture softened. “Of course I can,” she replied, offering him a small, apologetic smile. “I genuinely didn't mean to upset you. It’s—I mean, it is _quite_ a lot to get my head around and I can't promise not to be surprised again, but if I am I will try not to make such a production of it.” 

“I’d be grateful.” He smiled again, the wide, bright smile from earlier. Hermione’s guilt dissolved like sugar into tea, replaced by a burst of warmth that started in her chest and spread out to the tips of her fingers and toes. She gasped at the sensation, her eyes flying to Malfoy's face, but he was looking at his book again, marking his page, and didn't notice her astonishment. “There’s a place down the street that does a solid green curry and an absolutely fantastic _gang penang gai_ ,” he said, “and they deliver. How does that strike you, Granger?” He set the book on the table and looked up at her. Another wave of warmth stole her breath. 

With effort, Hermione found her voice. “Sounds great.” 

“Brilliant. Menu’s in a drawer next to the fridge. I’d fetch it myself but _some_ body has decreed I’m not to leave this chair.”

She managed what she considered a very competent eye roll, given the circumstances. “Quite right, too," she murmured. "I'll get it. You just... stay put.” 

In the kitchen she leaned against the counter and pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the pounding of her heart and the heat that still pulsed within her and wondering what in the name of Morgana all _that_ was about. 

**Author's Note:**

> I am femme-écrivain on tumblr... new there too and hoping you'll stop by and give me people to follow!


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